


Thin Band of Gold

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur likes Merlin in his things, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, It's Arthur POV in case you couldn't guess, M/M, Sharing Clothes, and speechless Arthur, in denial Arthur, possibly oblivious Arthur?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: He holds a thin band of gold in his hands. His arms had been rising, as if they were about to place the circlet on Arthur's head. Except Arthur wears a crown now, not his circlet, and Arthur had been out at training.“I was just cleaning it,” Merlin explains.He places his gloves on the table, leaning against a chair. “Put it on.”“What?”He nods at the circlet. It had been what Merlin was about to do, wasn't it? And it will be funny, the peasant turned prince.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 86
Kudos: 1704





	Thin Band of Gold

It had been a long hard day of training. The knights are out of shape after the winter, and the new intake need bringing up to scratch at the same time. Really, it isn't Arthur's job any more – a king has higher priorities to take care of – but he can't trust those he doesn't know, so he keeps a closer eye on proceedings than perhaps would be expected from a ruling monarch.

He pulls off his gloves as he closes the door behind him, and stops short.

Merlin, in his chambers.

Not unusual in itself, at this time of day – although most servants would by now be down by the kitchens, awaiting cook's evening meal while it was still fresh.

“Arthur!”

No, it isn't Merlin himself. It is the thin band of gold, held carefully between his hands. The way his arms had been rising, as if they were about to place the circlet on Arthur's head.

Except Arthur wears a crown now, not his circlet, and Arthur had been out at training.

“I was just cleaning it,” Merlin explains, and the gold does shine, freshly buffed, catching the last rays of spring sunshine. Only Merlin would think to polish unused jewels while the fire lies unlit, and the floor unswept. Jewels that won't be brought out until Arthur has a son of his own, old enough to be trusted with it.

He places his gloves on the table, leaning against a chair. “Put it on.”

“What?”

He nods at the circlet. It had been what Merlin was about to do, wasn't it? And it will be funny, the peasant turned prince.

Merlin raises his hands again, gaze darting back to Arthur. He nods again, stifling a laugh at how it will look, how it will push Merlin's ears out even further -

Oh. It does do that, of a sort. But the gold also shines against his hair, highlighting the messy sweep of dark locks and the circlet's unavoidable presence on Merlin's head. The crown that still feels more like his than the heavier, more precious King's crown, which sits like a stone and every time reminds him of his father, and how much more easily he bore its weight.

Arthur's circlet. Resting on the familiar ears of his manservant.

He breathes.

Merlin smirks. “Silly right?” he asks, fingers going to take it off, and Arthur takes a step forward to – to what? Stop him?

“Yeah, silly,” he manages. “Makes your ears look...” gigantic, humongous, stupid. None of the above.

Merlin sets the crown back in its box, locking it away in the cupboard next to Arthur's bed. He turns, eyes narrowing at the way Arthur trailed off. “Are you all right?”

“Famished,” Arthur deflects. “Cook served up ages ago.”

Merlin frowns at him, but it's not a frown of discontent. It's his thinking frown, his worried frown, and when did Arthur learn to distinguish between those? He coughs, grabbing the water jug on his night stand and pouring himself a glass.

“I'll go fetch it now, my lord.”

–

It _was_ silly, he tells himself over the next few weeks. As the weather warms, Merlin finally stops looking at him like he's about to combust, or fire him over a perceived clumsy attempt to steal the Pendragon jewels.

Arthur wears the King's crown on two separate occasions. It leaves pressure dents behind his ears, which he rubs at when Merlin turns and locks it away.

He wonders about asking Merlin to put that one on – to compare, to contrast – but fixes the words away high in his throat. His father never really liked Merlin. And he doesn't want him to know how much that crown aches.

–

“Merlin!”

He grins as his servant turns just in time to catch a faceful of shirt. Merlin bats it away and splutters before stooping to pick it up. “Prat,” he murmurs, just quietly enough that they both know Arthur is pretending not to hear.

“That's done, you can have it if you like.”

Merlin holds out the shirt – it's red, but the dye has paled over time and a couple of stray moths have used the winter to chew little holes down near the hem. It would do, at a push, as sleepwear or under armour, but Arthur already has shirts put aside for those purposes.  “It's not really me,” he says, looking uncertainly at the low, laced neck. 

“Ungrateful sod,” he mutters, but doesn't give Merlin the out of offering it to another servant. He hates to think what would happen if anyone realised. Even an old shirt of his, out in the open, could lead to riots.

Well, maybe not riots. But his father had fired a washer girl once for selling off his breeches to the highest bidder.

It'll be safe with Merlin. And after he's run it ragged, no one will ever even know it used to hang in the royal cupboard. It's the perfect solution. In fact, he's not sure why he's not hit upon this before. Merlin wears the same three things in rotation, and his closet has many ageing clothes with nowhere to go. “In fact, if there's anything else you want – that's not suitable for me! - you can take that too.”

“Really?”

Merlin lights up, opening the cupboard door, and Arthur returns to his meal. If Merlin takes the mick he can always stick him in the stocks for a few days.

–

Merlin does not take the mick, but he does take one further shirt – this one a dark, forest green – and a pair of breeches with a rip over the knee.

He wears both – rip neatly patched – the following day, and Arthur nearly misses his mouth with his porridge spoon.

“Uh,” he says intelligently, but Merlin just looks at him like he's always this useless first thing, and Arthur is suddenly weirdly glad for his reputation as a late riser. He follows it up with “green suits you,” because he thinks he needs to say something else, and this time almost intentionally brains himself with whatever heavy object is closest to hand.

“Thanks Arthur,” Merlin smiles, and returns to setting his bed covers to rights.

–

The green is nothing when Merlin finally takes out that red shirt, and Arthur realises quite how much he likes his manservant in his clothes, and quite how much red suits him.

It's charity, he tells himself. This warm feeling is knowing he's done a good deed.

Funny that it feels a little hotter, a little brighter, than even when he saves a village from a marauding beast.

It's friendship, he insists, when he finds himself willing the days away and contemplating Merlin's washing schedule; when he can expect to see it again. Just care for a friend.

Odd, that he's never had another friendship feel quite like this, but then Merlin has always been different. A truer friend than visiting nobles in search of influential connections, or knights appointed as guardians by his father. An older friend than Gwaine, or Elyan, or Percival.

It's coincidence, he decides, when he finds himself setting the hot, dirty chores when Merlin wears his own clothes, and light duties when he wears one of Arthur's shirts. 

Chores need doing when they need doing, that's all.

–

Arthur feels light as he swings into his saddle. A diplomatic visit to Branlant wouldn't normally set his heart singing, but it's a three day ride before they have to settle in to the courtly manners and bureaucracy, and he's been trapped in the castle all winter. The spring air feels fresh, just a hint of sun-warmth in it, and Arthur arranges his cloak to combat the early morning chill.

He's taking just Elyan and Percival with him, and Merlin of course. Gwaine will keep an eye on the rest of the knights in his absence, and Leon will keep an eye on Gwaine. The council will cover for him while he cements Camelot's relationship with the Branlantians, and although he feels a twinge of regret, worry over leaving his kingdom, he can't deny it feels like a release to be back in the saddle.

“We really ought to get going, Sire.” Elyan fixes his horse's girth and mounts beside him. His horse prances, as eager as Arthur to be off on the road. 

“Of course.” He turns to face where Merlin is still fixing bags to the pack-mare's tack. “Merlin! We'd like to leave before sunset.”

“If you weren't bringing everything but the castle walls...”

He scoffs. He'd packed perfectly sensibly. Or rather, he had told Merlin what to pack. There are clothes, and food for the journey, and then a few gifts and trinkets for the Branlantian royal family. It wouldn't do to show up empty handed.

The sun hides behind a cloud, and Arthur tucks his cloak closer.

“Did you pack my spare cloak?”

Merlin fixes the last bag. “No.”

“I might need it.”

“It's April.”

“We're heading north-”

“You're wearing a cloak-”

“What if this gets dirty, or damaged on the journey?”

Merlin waves an arm impatiently at the laden pack-mare. “There's nowhere for it to go-”

“ _Merlin!_ ” He really should reprimand Merlin, or at least remind him not to be so impertinent in front of foreign royals. “Go fetch it.” He says shortly, and they wait as he grumbles and trots off. By the time he finally reappears, even the pack-mare is getting twitchy, and Elyan has had to lean over and capture the reins of Merlin's horse to prevent it wandering off all together. 

“Where should I-”

“Just put it _on_ , Merlin, and maybe we can get going before we die of old-”

His words trail off as Merlin swings the deep red around his shoulders, fastening the familiar clasp at his neck. He watches the way he hauls himself into the saddle, the way the fabric twists around his legs, so unused to the way it falls after a lifetime of just shirts and breeches. How his horse shuffles as Merlin stands in the stirrups to sort himself out, then sits and looks up expectantly, finally swathed in rich scarlet like he was born to it.

“Arthur?” asks Elyan, and Arthur gives his mare a distracted nudge. They're off.

–

He feels foolish as they ride, but when they stop for the night he's glad he sent Merlin back for the cape. The encroaching night is colder than expected for the month, and he huddles close to the fire.  Merlin sits at his side.

“Are you warm enough?” he asks, staring into the flames. 

“Yeah,” Merlin answers. His hands are white in the firelight, icy river water chilling them when he washed up their dishes. They curl in Arthur's spare cloak though, and when he turns to look at his friend, his cheeks are flushed and warm.

–

The visit goes well. Merlin managed not to embarrass him too terribly, and the Branlantians were both pleased with their gifts, and admiring of Percival's prowess during a friendly impromptu sword fight that sprung up for extra entertainment one afternoon. They part on friendly terms, and the ride back is relaxed.

“Merlin!”

They clatter into the courtyard, and Gwaine is immediately there. He grins at Arthur, waves to Elyan and Percival, then helps Merlin from his horse. Typical. 

“Liking the new threads, Merl, very regal.” His fingers pick at the cloak Merlin still wears, and his eyes meet Arthur's over Merlin's shoulder.

“No room to pack it,” he explains. 

“Right, of course.” He's not convinced, and Arthur forces himself to keep meeting that gaze. “Good job there was an extra body to put it on, hey?”

Arthur smiles, relaxing. He dismounts and turns to loosen his horse's girth.

“Or maybe Arthur has a thing for you in his clothes.”

He freezes, fingers slipping on the buckle, and keeps his face down. A hollow thud and a laugh from Gwaine, like he's been thumped on the arm. 

“I'm just saying! That green shirt you had on the other day. Didn't think you knew what green was. And I'm sure I saw Arthur in it last summer.”

“So he gives me some old clothes. It's a servant perk.”

“Oh, a _perk_.” There's something lascivious about Gwaine's tone – even more than normal, which is saying something – and it makes his ears burn. Merlin is innocent (at least, Arthur thinks – hopes – he is) but he's not stupid. He must understand Gwaine's meaning. Is it possible to de-knight someone for chatter? He'll have to check the charter.

“Yes.”

Arthur gives up on the girth, and leads his horse away. He can take her to her stall for once, he needs to check in with the stable master anyway.

–

He hopes it will be one more thing they sweep under the rug, but of course – Merlin is always there when you don't want him, and nowhere to be found when you do.

That's not quite true, a little voice deep inside insists. He ignores it.

He closes the door to his chambers behind him, because he can't very easily turn around and walk straight back out, just because Merlin is here, unpacking. The gifts from the Branlantians litter his table, and Arthur sighs as he picks up a circlet of silver and rubies. It is a princess' crown; something like what Morgana used to wear. It is a hint, he knows, that perhaps if he married their princess, there would soon be a daughter to wear this gift.

He runs his fingers over the front jewel, and puts it back on the table with a crack.

“Very generous people,” Merlin says, eyeing the crown.

“A bribe,” Arthur responds, slumping in a chair. Merlin picks it up, looks more closely than he was allowed in Branlant in case anyone else should see a mere servant manhandling precious royal presents. 

“It's beautiful.”

“Put it on.”

He didn't mean to speak. Merlin looks at him consideringly, then slowly raises it to his head. Arthur holds his breath until it touches his hair, then settles, the spark of bright silver against dark.

This crown is smaller; made for a woman it rests higher. It's wrong. Arthur swallows.

“Go get the other one.”

Merlin meets his eyes, then nods slowly. He takes the key from Arthur's luggage, unearths the old prince's circlet, and holds it loosely in one hand. Arthur nods, and Merlin swaps one crown for another, swaps moonlight for sunshine that pushes his ears down and unfurls a lick of warmth in Arthur's gut.

He stands, suddenly, and unearths the spare cloak that Merlin had already set away in his wardrobe. He's well aware of what this looks like, as he settles it around Merlin's shoulders, as his fingers fumble with a clasp the wrong way round, a task Merlin makes look so easy. He smooths the fabric as Merlin stands silent.

“Well?” The silence is unnerving, unnatural. He's used to a chattering Merlin, but now he has this – a princely Merlin, a Merlin he could have met anywhere, who he could have shared hunting expeditions and tourneys with – except no, because that Merlin would never be allowed to be here, now, in his chambers. Would never have woken him up in the morning, or settled him down to sleep in the evening. Would certainly never have bathed him, dressed him, stood at his shoulder as they faced the world together.

But this Merlin did. This Merlin did all those things, and now he stands here in Arthur's crown, and Arthur's cloak, and he stands tall. 

“Gwaine was right,” Merlin says eventually. “You do like me in your clothes.”

There doesn't seem much point in denying it. He nods, throat clicking and eyes flicking from broad shoulders to dark curls flattened by gold, to silly ears sticking out – that make something melt deep inside.

He – he wants to know what the cloak feels like. He raises his hands, lets them rest on Merlin's upper arms. Familiar, high quality fabric. Body warmth beneath. “You should keep it,” he whispers.

“What – what else do you like?”

It's not a question he can answer in words, and he sways imperceptibly closer. It's not a question he can answer any way, he realises, because he can't just take. He can give and give and give, but he can't take. Not here. Not now. Not with Merlin.

He looks down, silenced, and feels a finger tilt his chin up again. Soft and sure, and so familiar – hands used to moving him to fasten his clothes. He stops at Merlin's lips, unable to meet his eyes. He sees Merlin swallow, wonders how they got so close. Close enough that he can feel Merlin's soft exhales, close enough that he wonders if Merlin can hear his heart beating.

It pounds, uncertainty warring with impossibility. Fight or flight wires crossing to freeze him in place.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, and it's so quiet he may as well have breathed it. He closes his eyes.

Soft lips touch his, and he keeps his eyes screwed tightly shut. It must be a spell, it must be magic, but he can't fight this off, not now, not as he realises. Merlin. It's always been Merlin, from that first day he stood up to him in the marketplace, through years and through everything. Always Merlin. Right by his side, the one person he could trust.

The one person he wanted.

Now close enough to touch.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks again, and a whisper of fresh air has Arthur's eyes springing open, his hand flying to catch the back of Merlin's head. He reels him back in, and the kiss is still tentative but degrees surer this time. A careful, hesitant exploration.

“Merlin,” he breathes when they part. He's greeted with a blinding smile, and a crown slipped sideways from where he nudged at it. It slips almost over one eye, and Arthur grins. He straightens it carefully, enjoying the brush of soft hair on his fingertips and the cool, light touch of the metal.

“I can't wear this all the time,” Merlin teases. “The cloak is so impractical for cleaning, it'll get wet when I mop the floors. And the kitchen maids will get ever so jealous of the jewels.”

It's just a joke, he knows it's a joke – something to lighten the mood. But Arthur doesn't laugh. “You'll wear it here?” he asks, and Merlin's eyes widen. 

“Here?”

“With me,” he confirms. “I like you in it. And one day...” he darts in for another quick kiss. He could get addicted to this, deepening it and feeling his stomach flutter at the barest hint of Merlin's tongue. “One day you'll have your own.”

It's a lot, he knows, when they've only shared three kisses. But Merlin has already proclaimed he'll be with Arthur until he dies, and Arthur knows if there's one person he can stand to be at his side for eternity, somehow, it's Merlin. It's a scruffy, disrespectful, pain in the arse of a manservant.

“I like yours.”

Arthur groans, fingers tightening on shoulders and forehead coming to rest against Merlin's. “You can't say that.”

“I like yours,” Merlin repeats, and grins when Arthur glares at him. “I don't listen to anything else you tell me to do.” Arthur laughs now. Merlin's fingers come up to play with the gold circlet that started it all, but he doesn't take it off. “You could make this the...” he blushes. “Consort? Is that right? Crown.”

“Yes,” Arthur gasps, and his arms take on a life of their own, encircling Merlin and pulling him in for a hug, a hug that he punctuates with another deep kiss. “Consort is right,” he edges out.

Merlin pulls back, but his fingers sweep down and grasp tightly to Arthur like he doesn't want to let go. “That one,” he nods at the silver crown abandoned on the table, “can be the new prince crown, as well as the princess crown.”

“Can't think we'll need that.”

Merlin shrugs. “You'll appoint someone one day.”

“Will I?”

“Yeah. Someone has to rule Camelot when we're gone.”

Merlin's got it all worked out, Arthur realises. While he's been stewing and wondering and repressing, Merlin's sorted their whole life out for them. He can't help his grin, helpless against the happiness bubbling out. He can take now, he reasons, it's okay, he can take all the kisses he wants. 

But he doesn't have to. He goes to take - and finds Merlin capturing him, instead. 

**Author's Note:**

> The Branlant kingdom I got from here: http://www.earlybritishkingdoms.com/arthur/lit_kingdoms.html
> 
> Merlin in red is inspired by this gifset: https://iknownowmerlin.tumblr.com/post/189495008836
> 
> Hope you liked it!


End file.
